


"Thank You."

by Belle82DevArt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of Anxiety, Mentions of Panic Attacks, Mentions of Sex, Mentions of alcoholism, Mentions of past relations, Torture, Trigger Warnings, m/m - Freeform, mentions of car wrecks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:01:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21980854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belle82DevArt/pseuds/Belle82DevArt
Summary: What happens when the British government himself is knocked down and needs help getting back up?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2019





	"Thank You."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [n_a](https://archiveofourown.org/users/n_a/gifts).



> This is my contribution for the FandomTrumps Hate 2019 collection. My donor Nangi Akki, has graciously given me the idea for the fic and has also donated the ‘Border Angels’. I must thank you for donating, and thank you for your patience with my shitty internet. <3

The sputter of lips sound in the heavy air, blood and saliva dripping down into the puddle of filth that had been drying and returning, layering the floor with a thick coating of grime and matter no one dared discuss. Heavy breathing followed between each hit, trying to mentally prepare for the next but ultimately flinching when each collision of a fist met a now broken and torn jawline. A thick swallow to try and keep the acid building up in ones throat cavity and soon spilling out when the stench of blood grew too intense. He sputtered, glazed gaze of sleepless eyes and visions from weeks without sleep driving the mind to fade and wither. He was alone, so very alone. Alone in this dark cell with a man who smiled at his deterioration. 

The next hit.

Then another.

Then another. 

He fell to the side with another cough and the small formation of crimson and spit spilling out from the corner of an open mouth that gasped for air and tried to force it in with each shaken gulp. “Until next time.” The voice would whisper so nastily near his ear, the only difference from the stench in the air being that of cheap cigarettes and the heavy waft of rotten teeth. Gum disease was a bitch but the stench made it worse, oh so much worse. The slamming of a heavy metal door made the man flinch, made him shiver…

“Mycroft...”

Oh, how that voice tortured his poor soul, how it made him believe that voice was there in the very room that became his cell, his own personal hell.

“Mycroft.”

Again, oh how he began to grow hope, yet dread took over when his gaze scanned the room, eyes fluttering with each labored breath. 

**\-----**

“Mycroft! Wake up!”

Mycroft sat straight up in bed, hands covering his face and trying to take in the air he oh so needed. He didn’t take note of the man holding his shaking form or the whispers against his ear as his fingers shook and nails dug into his temple as to reduce the fear of his raging heart and panic of his shaking digits. He swallowed, gasped, and when his cheeks felt wet, he finally took notice of the man at his side. “Myc-” 

“Don’t touch me.” The bigger man hissed, in scorn and hellfire behind his gaze. Pity never suited him. He never wanted anyone's pity, nor the man who he slowly began to fall for in his years of knowing. From mentions to the first crime scene Mycroft arrived at for retrieval of his brother and finally the night they first spent together. He never wanted to be seen as anything short of the protective government body that he is and runs. He never wanted to be one to hold him back, or make him dwindle and bow like wet wood just to take care of him when he was at his lowest point. “Mycroft, please.” The man glared through tear stricken eyes, removing himself from the grasp of the half-asleep Detective Inspector that looked through softened gaze to the retreating form. Slowly he rose from the bed, following the man who went to the hall to compose himself. Despite vocal protests that followed, there were arms that still wrapped around his shaking form, catering to the need of the man who refused to admit he was in need. Physical affection was never his forte but the moment he felt that hot breath against his neck and the delicate kisses that reminded him he wasn’t just a block of ice, he slowly turned and faced the man who tried so desperately to have his darling government in a man turn and tell him just what he endured, tell him just what he could do to make it better...What he could do to take it all away. 

**\-----**

“Mr. Holmes, you’re a very lucky man. Very lucky indeed. You see, we had planned on your little convoy flipping over and this whole ordeal being a ‘freak accident’, but oh ho ho no, you just had to crawl out of the mess of shattered glass and metal, all because one of your men protected your lard ass.” A heavy hand patted a bloodied face, trying to pull away from the light waves of pain but soon captured by his thick chin and brought to face his captors gaze. “There are many men who want you dead, Mr. Holmes, and they paid me quite a sum just to destroy your convoy and attempt to kill you in it, but now they’re doubling their price just to see you bleed, just to watch each bone shatter and each bit of life slowly fade from your bastard gaze. You’re a shit man, and an even worse head of government.” 

The man watched the other stalk about the room, gathering his tools and preparing each with a tune to his breath. He hummed as each blade and hammer was placed with such delicate care, pliers ready for the plucking and chains brandished in a way as to hold the poor man in torn suit and exposed chest still. He breathed heavily, watching with gagged mouth and sweaty skin as his tormentor began to create his own personal hell-scape. He swallowed, blinked and right as the first hit came, he felt a sense of dread flood his body and senses. The second earned a protest and half-assed threat, and the third earned a broken nose that poured and poured. "We're gonna be here for the long run, Mr. Holmes, so you better get settled in."

**\-----**

“Why will you not let me help you, Mycroft? Because you’re a bloody Holmes? Because you think you’re stronger and-”

“Gregory, I don’t…” Mycroft sighed gently, cupping the cheeks of the Inspector with a gaze that could shatter the hearts of millions, yet also the same gaze that could diminish the image he has upheld, and shatter his reputation in a single swipe. “I don’t want you to see me as anything less than the man you have laid with and spent many days and nights with. The man who held you tight when you suffered after a case. The man who carried you on drunken nights and professed his love in a time when no one could hear or see just what he was reduced to due to one man.” A thick and hard swallow as he looked on to the man who made everything in this world minuscule except them. “I don’t want to worry you with something that made me...made me so…”

“Weak?” Greg questioned with a delicate brush to the man's hair, fingers gentle on his scalp before trailing to his neck and brings his form close against his own. “Yes.” The tremble to his voice was signal enough to have the embrace they shared tighten, to have him pressed close and shoulder wet with hot tears that showed the true impact of the caring man that stole and melted the governments heart. His heart hammered when the knees of the government shake and grow weak, falling down to the cold wooden floors of a manor that provided contrast to the moment that nightmares are made of. 

The ice man was weak.

The British government himself was weak.

Mycroft Holmes was weak.

“I want to take all your pain away, Mycroft. You, the love of my life, are not weak, are not small or anything less than what you were when I saw you behind your desk in your large office. You have the command of armies, have the will of a thousand men and the smarts of the world's most renowned geniuses. You are not the man I saw back in his cell with his arms shackled and body so broken. You’re not the man who hid away with shaking hands and heavy breathing. Yes, I knew you were doing such. I also know where all our scotch has been going.” He kissed the man's knuckles, gaze as soft as the plush pillows lining their shared bed. 

“Three months.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Three months I was locked in that cell, with the rats shifting about and the noise above coming from the sick men sent by my enemies. Three months I dreamed of getting back to you. Three months I begged whatever was above just to see your lovely features and darling gaze but by the fifth week in, I had begun to lose myself. I couldn’t sleep. I refused to eat whatever they gave me and be treated like a prisoner of war. But then it got worse, then they gave me hope and by God I believed them. I believed every single god damned lie because I wanted it to be true. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to see you and be free and then they took away everything I had left except you and my job. They took my dignity, my confidence, and my drive. I wasn’t Mycroft Holmes in that moment but a bloody coward…” He swallowed thickly, clutching the man who sat and listened with patience. “I was reduced to nothing until my allies arrived...until you arrived. You saw the filth, you saw what they reduced me down to and the after effects. You… You never questioned me about what happened and I kept pushing you away despite your support. I’m sorry, Gregory..so very sorry.”

“Mycroft, my dear, you mustn’t be sorry. Trust me, you have nothing to apologize for. You are the man I love and I will do everything in my power to help you heal. 

A quiet pause fell among the air as the two men held each other, shallow breath bringing in the tense air. The silence...t was finally broken by two words that hardly fell in such a tone, that only left when the man being held was most vulnerable. Mycroft Holmes said thank you.


End file.
